


The Champion

by needchocolatenow



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cardverse, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-06-05 09:31:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6699442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/needchocolatenow/pseuds/needchocolatenow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taken from all he has ever known for a crime he didn't commit, Alfred becomes entangled in a struggle he has no interest in. It seems that helping Arthur may be his only chance of getting home, but fate has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Trinket

Alfred was mid-cut with his sickle when something hit him hard, square in the back of the head. He dropped his tool to investigate and at first, thinking it was his brother Matthew, he turned to where his brother was supposed to be in the field.

Facing away from him, half buried in crops, Matthew was clearing out the stalks that Alfred had missed, paying no attention to him whatsoever as he hummed a cheery ditty.

It was the gleam of the worn gold chain, attached to a spade-shaped trinket that recaptured Alfred’s attention; he picked it up from the ground, turned it over in his hand, and looked around the field for the culprit that had thrown it at his head.

There was no one, just him and Matthew, in a silent sea of yellow wheat.

Maybe a ghost threw it.

Alfred chuckled to himself at the thought, stretched his arms, and then pocketed the trinket. He’ll look it over later, perhaps return it to whoever threw it. It looked nice and expensive enough that perhaps the owner may be missing it, but he had to get the day’s harvest done before the night came.

By the time Alfred finished work for the day, he was hungry and tired and the only thing on his mind was getting some dinner and rest. He followed his brother home, too exhausted to banter and make small talk. He bathed quickly and inhaled his dinner just as fast before retiring to the room he and Matthew had shared since they came squalling into the world together.

It was going to be another long day tomorrow; the harvest had got to come in before the stormy season hits and the rainwoman had predicted it to come early this year. That couldn’t bode well for anyone, but Alfred figured that his family could weather it as they had done all the previous years.

He was asleep the moment his head touched his pillow, the curious golden trinket in his trouser pocket completely forgotten.

==

Alfred had just changed out of his nightwear and into his work clothes when someone pounded at the house door rudely. The sound was heavy and hurried and it rattled throughout the wooden frame ominously. Alfred could hear his mother, quiet as a church mouse, opening the front door to greet whomever it was outside. There was a sharp shriek from her and Alfred heard the thundering footsteps of his father as he went out to see what the matter was. Alfred himself was about to follow suit when Matthew grabbed him by the arm and hauled him down to the floor without a warning.

“Look!” Matthew pointed out the window.

The spade was their national symbol; it was supposed to mean spirit and strength, but neither came to Alfred as he watched the brightly colored flag with the spade stitched upon it flap in the breeze right outside the window, a scant few meters from his face. Matthew was beside himself, as was their parents outside, and Alfred wondered why some provincial Lord of all people was at their front door.

“We’re just farmers,” Matthew whispered from over Alfred’s shoulder as they peeked out of the window. Matthew was wringing his hands in apprehension and Alfred could feel his own palms starting to sweat. “What do they want?”

More tax money, probably. “Hells if I know.”

Their parents were outside, huddled together on the ground as they bowed their heads low to the esteemed Lord.

Alfred couldn’t recognize the man outside and neither could he place the personal banner in which they flew, not that his eyes were good enough to discern minute details from too far away anyway. He wished he paid a bit more attention to his schooling; he recognized vaguely the faces of the King and Queen of their nation simply because they were plastered on the walls of the local tavern, but beyond what little he could remember from long hours of sitting on a wooden bench, Alfred knew nothing of the aristocracy or of the man at his door, and least of all why a whole private entourage was there, carriage and all.

“Someone here has it,” the Lord said, his voice accented, but his tone clear and confident. The man’s demeanor was impeccable, his back strong and ramrod straight, giving the illusion that he was taller than he was. His long black hair was pulled out of the way into a sleek pony tail that ran down the length of his back and perhaps from behind, he could have been mistaken for a woman. The clothes he wore were of a finer caliber than anything Alfred had ever seen—a glistening red with intricate circular patterns stitched in the fabric—and the guards that came with him were just as intimidating, their gleaming white armor shining bright in polished hues.

“We have nothing of value,” Alfred heard his father say, his head still bowed low, touching the dirt and no doubt leaving a smear on his forehead. “We are simple people, just living our lives.”

“Do you have sons?” the Lord asked. “Daughters? You must have help with your farm. Bring them out.”

When Alfred’s father hesitated, the Lord made a frustrated noise and gestured to the guards. “Get them out here,” he said, waving a hand. “We are on a schedule.”

The front door burst open, startling both Matthew and Alfred at the ferocity at which the guards had forced it open. It was no siege gate, just a simple wooden door without even a lock, though now it sported a terrible crack that ran parallel to the wall. That’s going to be permanent, Alfred thought as the guards grabbed him and his brother by the arms, lifting them bodily from where they crouched by the window.

They were arranged outside, the four of them standing in a line. A crowd was gathering, staring at them, murmuring.

“Well?” the Lord demanded. “Who has it?”

“We don’t have anything,” Matthew said. He was holding their mother’s hand as he stood, eyes darting every which way in nervousness. Alfred stood on his other side, arms crossed over his chest in a mirror image of their father. He was about to speak exactly what he thought of this display when a guard poked him with the sheath of his short sword.

It was not the leather sheath that poked him, but the feeling of warm, heavy metal in his trouser pocket that made contact.

Oh, no. He forgot.

The sound it made, however muffled, did not escape the guard’s notice.

“He has it,” the guard announced.

The Lord was fast—he was by Alfred in a blink of an eye, his hands digging into Alfred’s pocket to withdraw the strange spade-shaped trinket that he picked up yesterday. He could hear his family gasping and he turned to them, pleading; “I didn’t steal it, I found it yesterday while I was working! Someone threw it at me, I swear; I was going to return it, but I forgot!”

The Lord waved a hand and the guards grabbed Alfred, twisting his arms behind him and forcing him to the ground. The Lord stared intently at the trinket for a moment, turning it this way and that, then veered his attention back to Alfred, his expression indescribable. “Did you open it?” he asked.

“No,” Alfred replied, sending every ounce of truthfulness to his voice, hoping it would convince the Lord of whatever trespass or slight he held was imagined. “It’s just an expensive trinket—some stupid bauble I found! I was going to return it to the owner, I didn’t think I should play around with it.”

“This stupid bauble, as you called it,” the Lord said slowly as he climbed the steps that led to his carriage, his fingers tightening nearly imperceptibly on the spade shaped trinket, “is the King’s Watch. Cuff him and bring him into my carriage. I would have words with this man.”

Heavy iron shackles were placed over Alfred’s wrists without question from any of the guards and no matter how he struggled, he couldn’t get away from them. The guards were strong, too many, and heavy in their armor and Alfred couldn’t buck them off. He looked desperately at his captors, shaking his head as much as he could, trying to convey his innocence.

“I didn’t do it!” he yelled, but his words fell on deaf ears.

“Please, there must be some sort of mistake,” Alfred could hear Matthew pleading. “He was with me the whole time yesterday; there was no way he could have stolen something that belonged to the King!”

The Lord remained impassive as Alfred was carted past him and into the carriage. It was all fine leather and satin that lined the vehicle; the insides were colored an ostentatious navy and violet. A single spade was embroidered on the ceiling and there were shutters over the window. A fancy prison, probably the only luxury afforded to him before the Lord put him to death for a crime he didn’t commit.

“There is no mistake,” the Lord said, climbing into the carriage with Alfred. “We leave now,” he ordered his men and shut the door after him with finality.

==

Alfred squirmed in silence, trying to get out of the shackles, but only succeeded in rubbing his wrists raw and red. He didn’t want to die, not yet; he still had a full life ahead of him, so much that he still needed to do—wanted to do. He needed to help the only mare in their barn give birth, needed to help fix up the tool shed near the water mill. The last of the fruit from their small orchard was to be plucked and made into heavenly pies by his mother, of which he had to sample at least a slice. The dam at the edge of the big river was in need of repairs and everyone was supposed to help out with fixing that and afterwards, the town’s autumn festival was going to come and Alfred had always been a major participant in the celebrations. He wanted to win the title of Strongest Man in the village; he had nearly beat Sam last year, landing himself in second place, and Matthew had said that this was the year for him to win.

Oh, Matthew, Matthew, Mattie.

He was Alfred’s twin, older by just minutes, but they couldn’t be more different. Matthew was soft spoken, shy, and was all too easily pushed around by Alfred, who was boisterous and liked to be the center of attention. But they were happy and they loved each other and their sibling dynamics were quirky, but they were their own. The last image Alfred had of Matthew was him looking whiter than a sheet, violet eyes opened wide in shock as Alfred was hustled into the Lord’s carriage like a prisoner. Remember the happier times. Don’t remember him looking like that.

“I didn’t take the stupid thing,” Alfred muttered, testing the shackles again. His aching wrists protested; he was not escaping from them any time soon, at least, not without a key.

The Lord, sitting on the seat across from him in the carriage, sighed. “Of course you didn’t,” he said. “There’s no way you could have, not when you live so far away from the capital.”

Alfred stared at the man and he stared back. “You know I’m innocent.”

“Yes.”

“Then let me go.” Alfred rattled his shackles for emphasis.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” the Lord said, bringing a hand up to his temple. He sighed again, suddenly looking very tired. His impeccable posture was slumped and upon closer inspection, Alfred could see the pale, dark rings forming underneath his eyes, but they were well disguised with powder. “This is for your safety. We can’t have anyone discovering who you are, at least, not yet.”

Alfred stared at the Lord. Was this man actually insane? He’s heard of tales of spoiled Lords and Lordlings that were not quite right in the head; they were usually vicious and cruel, but no one could tell upon first glance. They were terrible, horrible people that projected the very air of innocence when it suited them; the best deceptions made by gaining misplaced trust. Alfred shivered at the memories of the stories, backing away as far as he could from the man that sat before him. He would not fall naively to this man’s scheme.

The Lord smiled, though it hardly seemed warm. “My name is Yao,” he said. “There is so much that I need to discuss with you, but time is of the essence. I will release you from your shackles, but only if you acquiesce to listen to my explanation without interruption.”

Alfred was helpless here, stuck inside a carriage with possibly a madman that had a host of guards. Matthew was the nice one, he’d know what to say in a situation like this without offending anybody. He was always mother’s favorite, being sensible and kind. Even the crabby old ladies that Alfred couldn’t charm were taken by him.

But Alfred was not his brother and he was tired of being in shackles. He’d have a better chance of escaping without them; he was definitely going to need to free his hands and so he nodded in quick agreement. “Yes, m’lord,” he said, as amicably as he could.

“I am not your lord,” Yao said, his tone sharp and quick. The look he was giving Alfred was one that reminded him all too much of his mother’s own glare when he’s done something foolish; stern, deliberate, assessing. It gave Alfred pause.

“Er, sorry, sir,” he said finally and Yao looked as if he wanted to correct that too, but instead, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Never mind.” With his slender fingers, he pulled out a small silver key. It slotted seamlessly into the keyhole that held the shackles together, releasing its lock with nary a sound, though the shackles were altogether a different story. They clanked heavily when they fell to the wooden floor and Alfred didn’t hesitate to kick them under the seat, least Yao decided to change his mind and cuff him again. His only companion in the carriage said nothing of the behavior; he just raised an elegant eyebrow and then reached into the folds of his sleeve.

“Let me return this to you,” he said.

He placed the King’s Watch in Alfred’s lap.

Alfred gaped and tried to shove it back at Yao, but the other man wasn’t having it. “You won’t frame me,” Alfred hissed. “I won’t take it! I didn’t steal it!”

“No one is framing anyone. This belongs to you now,” Yao said, refusing to take the King’s Watch back. “You must take care of it.”

Alfred openly stared even when he knew it was rude to, but Yao either didn’t care or didn’t notice; he steepled his fingers, his mouth opened ready to explain when the carriage stopped short, sending the both of them flying from their seats.

Yao’s face turned unpleasant, his eyes narrowed into slits, his pale complexion becoming as ripe as tomatoes as he yelled out the window: “Why have we stopped? We’re to make haste for the capital!”

“Sire, there’s someone in the road. Please stay inside,” came the response from one of the guards.

Alfred could hear them yelling at whoever it was that was standing in front of the carriage; apparently threats weren’t working, the person continued to stand stubbornly. Then, it all went quiet. Slowly, the carriage began to move again. Yao muttered something foreign under his breath, brushing a few errant strands of hair out of his face.

“For what it is worth, I am sorry for the way I’ve taken you from your family, but you can return, later, if you wish it,” Yao said. “As of now, the Kingdom of Spades needs you; the King’s Watch chose you out of all her citizens and thus you are—”

Alfred felt himself being shoved away, his shoulder bouncing roughly off of the side of the carriage as Yao saved his life. A wicked curved spear had embedded itself where his head used to be from the north-facing wall and Yao shoved the door open, grabbing Alfred as they barreled outside and onto the dusty forest floor. They’ve been moved away from the road, though not far; Alfred could still see the flat dirt road they had been traveling on, a trail leading off it made from the wheels on the ground. Surrounding the carriage were not the bright armored figures that Alfred remembered were Yao’s personal guards; these men were dressed all in black, their faces obscured by heavy masks and helmets and each one of them wielded a weapon that was sharper and more dangerous looking than the last. Some of them still had blood dripping from their weapons.

The men seemed surprised, hesitation evident in their postures when they set eyes upon Yao and Alfred briefly wondered who he was, if not a Lord; Yao’s cultured tone and obvious education told Alfred that he was a person of influential standing and probably came from an old family with money. He certainly seemed the type, despite all his insistence that Alfred not address him as such.

“If you attack me, I will consider this action as treason!” Yao roared, putting himself in front of Alfred and slowly corralling him backwards into the cover of the forest. “Return to your master and tell him that he already has my attention!”

“It is not you that we want,” one of the would-be assassins spoke, his voice garbled by the mask he wore on his face. He was shorter than Alfred, slighter too; Alfred probably could have taken him on in a fight, if not for his state of confusion and the spiked club that the man wielded like it was nothing. Alfred only had his bare hands, sweat soaked and clammy as they were; he could barely make fists with them and his throat was devoid of all sound and speech. Death not by the hands of some spoiled Lord, but by the Lord’s enemies. What an incredibly, horrible end.

Upon some unseen signal, the black garbed people charged, their weapons at the ready.

“Run!” Yao pushed at Alfred and he went, not needing to be told twice, sprinting faster than the time he was chased down by wild buffalos, his legs guiding him through the thick of the forest with Yao on his heels, their pursuers right behind them. The scenery melted away from his vision, the greens and browns blurring together into a cacophonous image that pulsated with the beat of his heart. He could scarcely string together a thought as a hand tugged at his arm, pulling him in another direction.

He dodged a flying knife that embedded itself in a tree branch that was too close for comfort. Alfred let himself be dragged by Yao down the path with thicker cover, terrified and confused. They haven’t been running long through the thickets, mostly dodging around trees when the hand on his arm yanked—hard.

“Stop! Stop!”

He nearly wrenched his arm from his shoulder at the force of the stop; he was turning, half sliding, half falling as his footing slipped on slimy river muck. Dark, rushing water nipped at the shoe print he left behind, the banks of the river swelling. Alfred’s breath was caught in his throat as he realized that he had nearly ran headfirst into the river and if Yao hadn’t stopped him, he probably would have careened straight into it and drowned like the fool he was.

“Open the Watch,” Yao hissed to him as the assassins emerged from between the trees.

“What?”

“Do it if you want to live.”

Alfred fumbled for the trinket in his pocket, his fingers feeling fat and clumsy as they curled around the spade shaped thing, his adrenaline rush forcing through his rising panic to have his thumb to press down on the tiny metal button that seemed to work like a release. The man nearest to them brandished his spear and thrusted, his aim straight at Alfred’s torso.

The lid to the King’s Watch opened.

It was like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs, the bones ripped from his flesh; the agony that stemmed from holding the Watch was excruciating and Alfred couldn’t drop it, the tiny thing sticking to his palm like the most wretched of freshly melted candle wax. He may have screamed, he wasn’t sure; there was a voice, loud and booming that threatened to erupt his eardrums echoing all around him and Alfred dimly registered that the voice was speaking words.

_“Do you swear to never desert your people in need, to support them in dire times, and rule over them with justice and mercy?”_

“Yes,” Alfred gritted out. “Yes. Anything.”

The Watch snapped shut and the world came rushing back to Alfred. He staggered, his eyes struggling to stay open as he watched Yao take a blow through the gut for him. The assassin’s spear would have skewered Alfred through the lungs had it not been for the other man’s interference.

“You have to live!” Yao screamed, pushing him backwards. The assassin shook Yao's body from the spear, discarding him as if he were a rag doll.

Alfred fell, unable to put up the tiniest resistance as he tumbled into the river. The last thing he thought he would ever see was the sun shining bright and warped from above the violent, turbulent waves.


	2. The Storm

 

The storm came fast, much faster than Arthur had thought it would, and so he was caught outside in the rain wearing his new cloak that his father had sent him. It was a garish thing, quite impractical and very restricting, but it was the first parcel that Arthur had received from the man in over two years. It was probably due to the fact that the King and Queen had passed and his presence was required at the capital, but Arthur liked to think it was a thoughtful, loving gift from an absent father.

 

“Bloody hell,” he swore as the light drizzle turned into an outright downpour of rain. The turning of the season seemed to reflect the instability of the Kingdom of Spades; not only had the King and Queen passed, but the news was that the Jack had gone missing as well. 

 

It went without saying that there was now a scramble for the vacant positions and the funerals hadn’t even happened yet; it was scheduled for two days time on Friday in the afternoon. According to the letter from his father, his presence at the funerals was mandatory. Arthur hadn’t been to New York in quite some time and while he missed his family, his mother especially, he didn’t miss the political squabbling. 

 

Now, with his new cloak soaked through, Arthur hurried his way down the nearly deserted street, dodging rapidly growing puddles in an effort to get home and pack for the inevitable trip to his father’s house. Mud splattered onto his leather boots, but he’ll clean them when he’s home and most importantly, when he’s dry. 

 

Even in spite of the rising wind, the humidity was hard to breathe through, thanks to the warmer summer temperature and with the addition of rain, the action of moving itself made him feel like a slug, sticky and struggling to shoulder its way through obstacles with a speed unrivaled anywhere in the world. Arthur didn’t much care for days like these, in fact he rather disliked them, but he supposed it was now inevitable since the weather seemed to be mourning the kingdom. The storm would probably rage all of continuously to autumn and through winter and right into spring, if that was the case. Who knows how long it would be until the new monarchs were installed. 

 

Arthur swiped at the water that was getting into his eyes and charged ahead, passing by the river that flowed down from the nearby mountains. It had swelled to new heights, every wave nearly touching the top of the flooding marker. Arthur was about to advert his eyes when something on the opposite bank caught his eye. 

 

There was a man clinging on to a jutting piece of earth as the dark waters swirled around him. The bridge to the other end of the bank was back the way that Arthur had just came from and no doubt dangerous to cross now, from the looks of the swollen river. He took one uneasy step forward and looked back at the struggling figure; there was no doubt in his mind that the man would drown if no one intervened. A brief glance around revealed that all the streets were empty, not a soul left standing at the usually busy intersection. 

 

Who else would be idiotic enough to be out here in this downpour?

 

Arthur sighed and cursed the weather, making an abrupt turn as he sprinted back towards the bridge he had passed, nearly tripping over loose pebbles on the road. The path down to the bank was muddy and slippery, but Arthur was nimble and made it without any mishaps. His boots were completely dirty now, as was his cloak and the majority of his clothes, but that didn’t matter. The man that had previously been clinging for his life on the bank had disappeared.

 

Traces of disturbed mud and what looked like a handprint entrenched deep within it was the only indication that there had been anyone there at all and suddenly, a horrible realization overcame him: he had been too late and the man was washed away by the waves. 

 

“Not just yet!” Arthur yelled, wrenching himself out of his new cloak and diving into the river. Contrary to the mild temperature on land, the water was icy cold and murky to see through. But there, floating beyond his reach, Arthur could just about make out the golden blond hair that caught his attention the first time. 

 

He reached, swimming with an urgency he had never had before, and he felt something brush against his outstretched fingers. 

 

Fabric. 

 

Pulling, he managed to yank the man’s head up above the water, if only briefly. 

 

“Hang in there!” he yelled to the stranger, but he seemed unresponsive, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. It was up to Arthur to bring them both back to safety as the storm raged overhead, determined to drag them both down into a watery grave. 

 

Arthur strained, trying to keep the stranger from drowning whilst at the same time trying to swim for safety in a very fast current, but the best he could do in this circumstance was keep both their heads afloat, gasping desperate heaves of air into his lungs as his body screamed in protest. Wave after wave threatened to overcome them. 

 

The river ran through the town and by now, they were through the heart of it and halfway out to sea. If they reached it, there was little chance that they’d both survive and nature would have her way. 

 

Miracles weren’t something that happened to Arthur often, but he spotted a chance: a long rope floating in the water like a snake, the remnants of red and blue colored decorations looked as if they’ve been stripped from the fastenings on the cords violently. He could see that one end was attached to a pole that stood firmly cemented above the river. Grappling at it, Arthur realized that the cold temperature had numbed his fingers to a degree that he couldn’t grip the cord properly. They were sliding away from their only lifeline. 

 

“Shit!” 

 

Arthur gritted his teeth, spitting out foul river water and dug deep, fighting to keep a hold of the stranger and of the cord. Lightning flashed and thunder followed suit, booming infinitesimally loud as the gale whipped around Arthur’s ears. His grip continued to slide further down the rope with every violent wave and the strength within his fingers were beginning to wane.

 

“Hold on to me!” 

 

It was the stranger, having woken up from whatever stupor he had been in. The brilliant blue of his eyes shined even in the murky darkness of the storm and if they had been in less dire straits, Arthur would have taken his time in admiring them. 

 

The stranger was big and sturdy, and he was strong too; he grabbed onto the slippery cord and pulled, reaching one hand over the other to slowly move upwards against the howling wind and rushing current. Arthur clung to the man’s back, dimly noting that it was very broad and firm. It took what felt like an age for the stranger to pull them both close enough to the sandbags for Arthur to throw himself at the ledge, using all his remaining strength to pull himself over. 

 

He rolled onto the muddy ground, his chest heaving in exertion. Every limb, every appendage was screaming at him in pain and in the mud next to him, the blond stranger was gasping for breath too. 

 

“Thanks,” the man said in between pants. His voice was weak and quiet and Arthur had to strain to hear. “For saving me.”

 

“You’re…welcome,” Arthur managed to say, but he had a feeling that his words had fallen upon deaf ears and sure enough, when he turned his head to check on the stranger, the man’s eyes were closed and his complexion quickly turning an unnatural white. 

 

_Fuck!_ Arthur glanced at the raging storm above them and cast conspicuous looks around the street; no one was around and even if someone was, the torrent of rain and wind was blinding enough. With his right hand, he pressed his middle and index fingers together, a dim green glow emitting from the tips. He grabbed the stranger’s wrist and spun his fingers in a circle three times before croaking in a broken, determined voice: “ _home_.”

 

They dropped into his foyer without any preamble, his magic dumping them onto the hard stone floor as if they were sacks of sand. The stranger didn’t stir a hair. 

 

“Arthur!” A high, lilting voice said from somewhere next to his ear. “What have you been doing?” 

 

“You’re all wet!” A second voice joined the first and Arthur turned onto his back to watch as four of his faeries huddled over him in concern. He was so cold, so exhausted; he wasn’t sure what he said, but the faeries all leapt into action at once, vanishing his sopping wet clothes and shoes, and placing him gently into a warm bath upstairs in his bathroom. They squeaked and squealed as they fussed over Arthur, who could only understand one word out of every three they spoke, so incoherent was he. 

 

“The—the man,” Arthur suddenly remembered and then he had to lean over the bath to heave up the river water he had inhaled. The faeries cooed and petted his hair as they cleaned up, their magic allowing them to not lift a finger in the name of physical labor. 

 

“You need to get to bed right away,” Peaseblossom said. She was a prim little thing, her hair done up in ringlets and her faerie clothes were neat and proper. Even her wings looked nice and clean, a translucent rose clearer and more beautiful than the finest stained glass. 

 

“The man in the foyer. Please help him,” Arthur pleaded. 

 

The faeries all looked at each other and in a flurry of noises, they protested.

 

“We hardly give a whit about stupid humans—”

 

“Why do we need to help him?”

 

“Humans are—”

 

“I’m asking you if you would please help him,” Arthur interrupted. The faeries looked at each other again and Mustardseed came forward and pressed a tiny palm to rest against Arthur’s cheek. She was tiny, smaller than the rest, with shimmering green wings that nearly dwarfed her in size.

 

“For you, Arthur,” Mustardseed said, though the look she gave him was hardly friendly. If it could be described, Arthur would say that the expression resembled that of a confident cat about to pounce on unsuspecting mice. _Sinister._ “You are our friend and we love you; as a token of our friendship, we will help the other human. But know this: we will never grant you a favor as big as this again, not without something in return.”

 

Just like that, the faeries disappeared, leaving Arthur to soak alone in a warm tub. 

 

That was odd.

 

Nonetheless, Arthur dismissed the thought. All faeries were odd. 

 

When he closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the porcelain, he could hear the frantic whispers of the magical creatures that lived in the nook and crannies of his house gossiping like old biddies. 

 

He was going to be sore for the next few days, he had no doubt; also, he had lost his new cloak and his father was going to be even more displeased with Arthur than before, if that was even possible. A pang of age old hurt throbbed in his chest, but he squashed it out relentlessly and cleared his mind of complicated thoughts. 

 

Sitting in a tub of relaxing water after a trying day, falling asleep had never been so easy. 


	3. The Meeting

**** There was something warm and soft that cocooned Alfred’s body that reminded him of lazy spring afternoons as a child. 

 

He had often escaped from his family and work to find a tree on the farm to climb; he was picky and the tree had to have leaves to provide enough shade and it couldn’t be flowering too greatly or else he’d have nothing but pollen all over his clothes and a nose that would never stop running. There was a great tree by the well, nestled behind a small brook that connected to the main river. Whatever tree it was, it never flowered, and yet, it also never withered even in the coldest of months. Alfred had never seen a tree like it anywhere else, with its grooved white trunk and deep green leaves that spiraled through its branches. It was his favorite napping spot even now, though Matthew had grown wise and easily found him every time he disappeared to sit upon the boughs. 

 

It was to thoughts of his brother that sprung Alfred from the bed as reality came back to hit him in the gut and it left him reeling and breathless, his eyes stinging from unshed tears. He had to go back, to make sure that his family was safe—

 

Alfred’s eyes alighted upon the room he woke up in. 

 

Beautiful, ornate wallpaper lined the ceiling to the floor and heavy drapes of violet hung as a shield over a window, hiding the view of a pearl white banister that led to a balcony. By the position of the sun, he knew it was still morning, though the hour was approaching noon quickly. 

 

He was in an unfamiliar house, sitting in an unfamiliar bed. The bedclothes he wore were just as unfamiliar, though a quick glance around the room, he spotted his shirt and trousers—mended and looking cleaner than ever—were laid out against the back of a plush looking chair. He was in some lord’s house, he knew as much, and vainly, Alfred hoped it was Yao’s, just so that he could possibly punch the short man in the face. 

 

Alfred jumped when he heard three heavy knocks on the door. When nothing else happened, he realized that whoever was on the other side was waiting for a response. 

 

“Come in,” he said and was surprised when his voice came out sounding like rocks rough against sand. 

 

The door opened and a sandy haired man came through, carrying a tray that housed a cup and a pitcher of water. The man had the thickest set of eyebrows that Alfred had ever seen and he would have laughed if he wasn’t feeling sick and confused. 

 

“How are you feeling?” the stranger asked as he set the tray down onto the bedside table. His voice was accented—and similarly to Yao’s, his was of the posh sort of voice Alfred had come to associate with highborns. Sometimes Alfred would run into merchants that would adopt or feign such an accent, but the way this stranger spoke, steady and with a pleasant lilt, he was sure that it was genuine. “You must be thirsty, though after that tumble in the river, you’d probably have had enough of water, hm?” 

 

The bushy browed Lordling smiled, clearly making a joke. 

 

“Please,” Alfred croaked, watching as the man poured him a cup of water. The pitcher was fanciful and large, white and curved in elegance. The cup itself was just as white and smooth, polished and gleaming, with delicate gold paint rimming its sides and a flourishing pink rose decorating the front. It was heavy for something that looked so fragile. 

 

He lifted the cup to his mouth and the moment the water touched his lips, it was as if his body had come awake all at once; his body ached, his head pounded, his chest clenched, and his throat thirsted. He drained the water from the cup and then proceeded to grab the pitcher, nearly emptying its content onto himself as he drank greedily. Vaguely, he heard the stranger protesting, but he couldn’t care less. 

 

“Stop it, you’ll vomit it back up and that would just be a waste of good water,” the Lordling said, physically trying to wrench the pitcher from him. 

 

Alfred tightened his grip, unwilling to be parted with it, when the pitcher cracked and shattered in his hands, spilling water and shards everywhere. 

 

It took them both by surprise and for a moment, everything was still. Then the Lordling burst into a flurry of words and action: “You brute! That belonged to my grandmother! Is that how you treat the things of the man that saved you?!” 

 

The bushy browed Lordling set about to pick up the pieces of the pitcher, grabbing the large ones first and setting them onto the tray. “Really,” he huffed. “Not even a thank you.” 

 

“Sorry,” Alfred mumbled, the very basics of manners hammered into him by his mother came creeping back into his mind. “Let me help you with that.”

 

The Lordling waved him away. “No need,” he said. “I’ve got it. Get out of the bed and I’ll have the blankets brought out to dry. Your clothes are over there,” the man waved in the general direction of the clothes Alfred had spotted earlier, “and when I come back, I’ll have a look at your hands.” After gathering up the last of the pieces, the man took the tray of shards and left. 

 

It was an implicit direction for him to change, if Alfred ever heard one. He did as he was told and slid out of bed, avoiding the dripping wet spot on the bed and floor and shuffled over to where his clothes were guiltily. He didn’t mean to break the man’s expensive looking pitcher, but the thing was more delicate than he had realized. Carefully, lest he ruin more expensive things, Alfred stripped off the bedclothes he wore and practically jumped into his clothes, relaxing now that he was in familiar garb. 

 

The Lordling returned, this time with a small first aid kit. 

 

“Give me your hands,” he ordered. 

 

“I’m fine,” Alfred responded, shoving his hands into his pockets. “And I’m sorry. For the pitcher. It was more fragile than it looked.” 

 

The Lordling frowned and observed Alfred with calculating green eyes. “Yes, I suppose it was quite old,” he said at last. “It’s an antique and has seen many years of use. Perhaps it was just time. Now, give me your hands. I cannot imagine having china stuck in them to be pleasant.” 

 

Slowly, Alfred brought his hands out, the palm of his right hand brushing against something heavy that rested inside his pocket. 

 

After all that tumbling in the water, the stupid thing was still with him.

 

The Lordling turned Alfred’s hands this way and that, making sure that there were no cuts or broken skin. When he was satisfied, he stepped back and shot Alfred a wry smile. 

 

“You’re a sturdy one,” he commented. 

 

Alfred bristled, not liking the way the Lordling was looking at him. It was a thinly veiled look of superiority and interest, neither of which sat well with him. “I’m a farmer,” he explained, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

 

“I can tell.” 

 

Alfred flinched before he could stop himself.

 

“Look,” the Lordling said after a beat, ignoring Alfred’s reaction. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m afraid that I’ll have to ask you to go. I would have liked to see you fully recovered, but you seem to be hale of health and sound of mind, and I need to be on my way. I’ll be late for a funeral otherwise and I’d rather not leave you here on your own with no one to care for you.” 

 

_No one?_ And then he realized that the house he was in was suspiciously uninhabited sounding. Back at home, there was a ceaseless cycle of noise, whether it was from the animals or from someone doing something in the house. Here, in this opulent room with fine furniture and elaborate wallpaper, he could hear no sounds from anywhere. There was a stillness in the house that came from the silence of emptiness. _What’s a Lordling doing without a house staff?_

 

Alfred’s mind picked slowly at the words the man had said. “A funeral?” he asked finally. “Where are you going?”

 

“For the King and Queen,” the Lordling said, giving Alfred an odd look. He was gathering up the wet blankets and sheets into his arms, ripping them boldly from the bed. 

 

He gestured for Alfred to follow him and led the way out of the room. They went down a hallway that was even more decoratively elaborate than the bedroom. Crystal gasolier lamps were mounted into the walls and the ceiling held coffered panels made of a fine, light chestnut wood. From the center tiles, a small chandelier hung, just waiting to be used, no matter the fact that the walls already had lighting installed upon them. 

 

Alfred felt even more out of place than before and kept close pace with the Lordling as they descended the stairs to the first floor landing. 

 

The man tossed the wet bedding into what looked like a laundry room and then shut the door, leading Alfred away from it. 

 

“I was supposed to be gone yesterday afternoon, but well,” he looked at Alfred, eyes keen, “my plans changed. I’ll have to make haste or I’ll miss the funeral entirely.” 

 

If the man in front of him was going to a funeral at the behest of the King and Queen, he must be somebody important. Alfred couldn’t understand why the man’s household was as barren as an orchard in winter, but perhaps the Lordling was just eccentric. 

 

“Are you not going to honor their passing?”

 

A beat of silence. 

 

“Who’s passing?” Alfred asked, the words slipping out and at the absolutely scandalized look the Lordling gave him, he realized it was the wrong thing to say. 

 

“The King and Queen!” The Lordling scowled. “Have you no respect for your sovereigns? I should have left you to drown in that river!” 

 

Alfred bristled. He lived so far out of the way of the capital city where the palace was located that news took weeks to reach them. It was hardly his fault that news traveled so slowly, but his town—Old Jamestown—was located between a wide, fast flowing river in the west and a series of small mountains that acted as a barrier against the rest of the world in the east. To the north laid the badlands that stretched for miles until it ended at the Sea of Ice. The only major road that connected Old Jamestown to the rest of the world was in the south. 

 

“I didn’t know,” Alfred snapped, feeling the heat rush to his cheeks. “I’m from Old Jamestown, we don’t hear anything of relevance there until half a month’s passed. May their Royal Highnesses rest in peace, the Gods bless their souls.” He fumbled over the words in the last sentence and if the Lordling noticed, he didn’t comment. “It’s not my fault I never heard. News travels slow.” 

 

The Lordling was frowning even harder now and the colors were slowly draining from his face. “Old Jamestown?” His eyes softened a fraction, though it was barely noticeable. “I—I didn’t know you were a survivor. It’s no wonder you’re behind on the news; after something so traumatic…I can only imagine what you’ve been through. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” 

 

Something must have flickered over Alfred’s face—confusion, most likely—and the Lordling’s face paled even further. 

 

“You…don’t know what happened to Old Jamestown?” 

 

“No,” Alfred replied. He felt as if he were floating, not really participating in the conversation. The world had slowed, time moving like honey through a sieve; the Lordling explained patiently what had happened and all Alfred could do was watch the shape of the man’s mouth as it formed words. It was a nice mouth. A shame that the words coming out of it were so horrible. 

 

Old Jamestown had been raided and burnt to the ground by the mountain tribes of the area; military reinforcements from nearby towns and cities had assembled too late to help save the rural farming town and could only put out the fires and search for survivors. As far as the news went, there had been none. 

 

Alfred shook his head from side to side, blinking. 

 

The Lordling gently steered Alfred into the kitchen, where he promptly began pulling out a kettle and another set of teacups. They sat in silence as Alfred continued to digest what he heard, his mind racing a mile a minute. 

 

It must have been those people that attacked him and Yao. There was no doubt in his mind that it was them; he remembered seeing Yao being skewered through and the man had been trying to leave the town with Alfred. They were Yao’s enemies and—

 

Alfred’s blood ran cold. They saw him with Yao, they saw Yao leave the town. They wanted something with him and now, Old Jamestown was gone. Alfred’s family was gone. Yao was gone. He was going to be next. 

 

“Come with me to the capital—to New York,” the Lordling said quietly as he served Alfred some tea. He hadn’t even heard the kettle go off, so mired in his thoughts was he. “You can get an audience with the Regent; you can perhaps get some recompense for the losses you’ve suffered.” 

 

Alfred really didn’t know what to say. He wanted to go home, confirm with his own eyes that Old Jamestown was gone, but he didn’t even know where he was right now. How would he get home? And then, after that, what would he do? Everything he had known—the farm, his brother, mother, father—was gone. The first place his—his _enemies_ had gone to look for him after losing him in the river was to burn down his home. Could he even go back safely? 

 

“I’m terribly sorry,” the Lordling said. “I don’t even know your name. I am Arthur Kirkland.”

 

“I’m Alfred,” he responded automatically. He took a sip of the tea and found that it was a bit too bitter for his taste. The unpleasant sensation stuck to his tongue, flooding to the back of his mouth, grounding him. He took another tentative sip. “Where are we?” 

 

“You’re in my home in Canterbury. You’ve come quite a way from Old Jamestown.” 

 

Canterbury! The river must have carried him for miles! He was so far away from home that walking on foot would take well over a week. He was practically at the sea! 

 

Arthur seemed to take a strange sort of pity on him and sighed. “Come with me,” he said again. He was gentle and sympathetic and Alfred felt very alone. “I’ll get you sorted out.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I have always wanted to write Hetalia fic. And now...I have! Hopefully I'll actually finish this har de har.


End file.
